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Charlotte never knew quite how it began, but her father suddenlyflung out a dangerous topic like a long-argued bone of contention,and he and Barnabas were upon it. Barnabas was a Democrat, andCephas was a Whig, and neither ever forgot it of the other. None ofthe women fairly understood the point at issue; it was as if theydrew back their feminine skirts and listened amazed and tremblingto this male hubbub over something outside their province.Charlotte grew paler and paler. She looked piteously at hermother.
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Sylvia knew that he was looking at her, but she never looked athim. She sat soberly waving a little brown fan before her face; thelight curls stirred softly. She wondered what he thought of them;if he considered them too young for her, and silly; but he did notsee them at all. He had no eye for details. And neither did sheeven hear his fine tenor, still sweet and powerful, leading all theother male voices when the choir stood up to sing. She thought onlyof Richard himself.
The moon was bright that night. The snow was frozen hard. Thelong hills where the boys coasted looked like slopes of silver.Ephraim had to go to bed at eight. He lay, well propped up onpillows, in his little bedroom, and he could hear the shouts of thecoasting boys. Now that he could breathe more easily thesuperiority of his enforced deprivation of such joys no longercomforted him as much as it had done. His curtain was up, and themoonlight lay on his bed. The mystic influence of that strangewhite orb which moves the soul of the lover to dream of love andyearnings after it, which saddens with sweet wounds the soul whohas lost it forever, which increases the terrible freedom of themaniac, and perhaps moves the tides, apparently increased thelonging in the heart of one poor boy for all the innocent hilarityof his youth which he had missed. 041b061a72